


And in Short, I was Afraid

by PhoenixGryffin



Category: Hedda Gabler - Ibsen, IBSEN Henrik - Works
Genre: 1890s, 5 Times, Angst, Attempted Sexual Blackmail, Canon Compliant, Consent Issues, Fear of Pregnancy, Gen, Marriage of Convenience, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-20 07:48:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4779467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixGryffin/pseuds/PhoenixGryffin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>General Gabler had always wanted a boy.</p><p>Or: Five times Hedda Gabler Tesman cried (and one time she didn't).</p>
            </blockquote>





	And in Short, I was Afraid

General Gabler had always wanted a boy.

Oh, it isn’t as bad as all _that_ , not really. It isn’t as if he ever comes out and says it—or even implies it, actually. But Hedda sees the way he praises the men who come to visit, sees his wariness around anything that could be seen as even _remotely_ feminine. So it’s only natural that she decides she’s going to be good enough to make him forget that he ever wanted a son; she's going to be better than both a son and a daughter combined if that's what it takes.

Her first lesson in how to be her father's perfect child comes shortly after, at the age of six, when she finds herself crying. It's stupid, really, and she doesn’t know why she’s doing it. She’s just lonely.

“What,” says her father, heavy footsteps stopping just in front of her, “are you doing.”

“I—” begins Hedda, then stops, unsure how to continue, unsure what answer her father wants to hear. “Nothing.”

The general sighs before bending down to look his small daughter directly in the eyes.

“Hedda darling, it’s important you understand that crying doesn’t ever solve anything. Only cowardly little girls cry, and you’re not a coward, am I correct?”

She only nods, staring at him. He’s extremely tall and dressed in full army getup—an imposing figure to anyone, yes, but especially to an easily-impressionable child.

“Glad you understand,” her father says, and he ruffles her wispy hair before getting up, leaving her alone.

Hedda doesn’t let herself cry again for years after that.

* * *

“Is your father home?” asks Eilert Løvborg.

It’s a warm summer evening, and she’s clad in a grey loose-fitting gown. The two of them have been conversing for about five minutes now; they’re on the couch like always, but Eilert’s just glanced backwards and seems rather surprised that the general isn’t in his usual chair, idly chaperoning the two of them.

“No,” says Hedda, smiling faintly, “he’s away. Some military business or other. I doubt he’ll be back until much later tonight.”

“Military business,” repeats Eilert. “Is that why—” He cuts his sentence off, gesturing to the pistols lying on the side table close to where Hedda's sitting.

“Those aren’t actually his anymore,” Hedda laughs. “He gave them to me. I’m getting to be quite a good shot. I told you about them a while ago, but maybe you’ve forgotten—”

“No, no, I remember them well,” interrupts Eilert. “That’s another trait you share with Diana. If her stories are to be believed, she’s quite excellent with weaponry.”

Hedda laughs nervously, smoothing back a loose strand of hair. “I hardly think she and I are anything alike.”

“You’d be surprised,” says Eilert in a tone so loud that Hedda reflexively shushes him despite the fact that no one else is in the room. “She reminds me of you at the strangest of times—though, of course, you and I have never—” He breaks off, staring at Hedda with an expression she can’t quite discern. It’s oddly predatory.

“Well,” begins Hedda, trying to ignore his piercing stare, “perhaps you’d like to—ah—talk about those things? You don’t even need to bother with being quiet today since my father’s away.” She waits for him to being speaking, but he only nods, and it occurs to her that he may not be quite sober.

“Have you been drinking?”

“A bit, I suppose,” says Eilert, “but that’s a common occurrence now.” He glances at the ground before bitterly continuing, “It seems I don’t know how to stop myself.”

“Stop yourself?” she repeats incredulously. “I’d think it would be liberating—to be free to do whatever your heart desires, to go out and just—just _live_ —”

“With vine leaves in my hair,” says Eilert in a monotone.

“Precisely,” replies Hedda. She smiles, but he doesn’t return the favor, instead staring at her with that indecipherable expression once again. “So,” she continues, “is there anything you’ve been wanting to tell me about?”

“Not _tell_ you, no.”

“Nothing at all?” murmurs Hedda, rather disappointed. “Surely you’ve done _something_ over the past few days—”

“I have,” he says. “Done things, that is. But you haven’t.”

“No,” begins Hedda cautiously, “you know perfectly well I can’t go running around and partaking in things like—well, like  _that_. People would talk.”

“Not if they didn’t know,” says Eilert grimly, and an involuntary chill runs down Hedda’s spine.

“They would, though,” she replies, studying him as intensely as he’s studying her. “The truth always comes out eventually.”

“Oh, I highly doubt that.”

Hedda remains perfectly still. Perhaps she’s simply reading too much into his conversation; they’re _friends_ , after all. He wouldn’t really—

Without a word, he leans over, grabs her by the shoulders, and kisses her; it’s a sensual, passionate kiss, and she recoils in shock.

“Eilert,” she begins, pushing him away, “I—I really—”

“Hedda Gabler,” he interrupts, “don’t you want to _live_? To finally experience the life I always talk about?”

She glances around, terrified that someone will overhear him. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she says, “the servants…”

“Aren’t they all downstairs at this hour?” he murmurs, leaning in ever closer.

“I—yes, but—” she’s panicking now, unsure what to do, “you never know, one of them could come up here at any moment—”

Eilert’s so close now that she can smell the alcohol on his breath. “Hedda, you and I both know that’s highly unlikely.”

“Regardless,” Hedda says, turning and staring him directly in the eyes, “it’s completely foolish. Imagine what people would say.”

“Oh, Hedda,” he murmurs, reaching up to gently stroke her face, “forget about that for once. _Please_.” She pulls away from him, but he wraps his arm around her; trapped, she glances wildly around, desperately hoping that the servants are indeed downstairs.

“I’ll be gentle,” he says, speaking in an unnaturally soft voice. “And I promise not to tell anyone, Hedda darling. No one need ever know.”

The two of them remain perfectly still for a short period of time; for a moment, it’s strangely comforting, sitting there with Eilert Løvborg’s arm around her waist, and she thinks maybe it’ll be alright after all.

And then he brazenly rests his other hand on her thigh. There's only a thin layer of fabric separating their skin now; instinct causes her to jerk away from his touch.

“Please,” he whines as she pushes away from him and moves all the way to the other end of the couch, “I need you.” Eilert shifts himself until he’s right next to Hedda, pulling her into another kiss before she has time to react.

She frees herself from his grasp once again. “No,” she says, “no, it’s not—we can’t—”

“I am _desperately_ in love with you, Hedda Gabler,” Eilert murmurs, and Hedda freezes. “There. Now you know.”

He loves her. Eilert Løvborg _loves_ her.

Does she love him in return?

Hedda isn’t quite sure; if she loves him, it’s not _this_ type of love, not one where he can touch her like that. The idea is more than a bit alarming.

But is that only because she’s desperately afraid of someone finding out?

She doesn’t know; he’s leaning in and caressing the side of her neck, and she doesn’t _know_. He kisses her again, and she tenses, leaning away from him; she doesn’t know, but it’s terrifying no matter what.

Hedda breaks away from his kiss for a third time, saying, “No. I told you, it’s too dangerous.”

"There's no reason to be scared," coaxes Eilert. "Live a little."

"No," says Hedda as he leans in ever closer, pressing her against the left arm of the couch, "I've told you, I don't want—"

"Just once," he whispers, his hand on the fabric above her collarbone.

"If you won't stop this ridiculousness right now," begins Hedda, trembling slightly, "I'll shoot you. I will."

Eilert only laughs, moving in so that his chest is resting against her. "You wouldn't shoot _me_ , Hedda—aren't we companions?"

"Yes," she says, "we are."

She reaches behind her for her pistol, cocks it, and points it directly at him, all while pushing him away. He recoils in shock.

"Companions. Not—not _paramours_ ," she says, rising from the couch while still keeping her pistol trained on Eilert. His eyes widen, and the expression on his face changes to one of betrayal.

"If we had truly been companions," he scoffs, "you would have had enough courage to trust me."

She merely stares at him, pistol steady in her hand.

"Go on, then," he hisses, voice dripping menace. "Shoot me if that's your intention."

Hedda's finger tightens a bit on the trigger, but she doesn't pull it. She _can't_.

"Shoot me. I'd welcome it." says Eilert. "Or are you too _afraid_?"

His accusatory gaze meets hers; slowly, very slowly, she lowers the pistol, hating herself for it all the while.

"I knew it," spits Eilert, standing up.

"Don't bother returning," Hedda says coldly as he heads towards the door. “Ever.”

She keeps up the act until the front door slams behind Eilert’s retreating figure, only sinking down onto the couch when she’s sure he’s gone.

In the end, she wastes an entire round of bullets by firing them into the orchard at random. She’s screaming, furious tears running down her face, and she doesn’t know whether she’s more angry with him for having the audacity to try something like that or angry with herself for not giving in to him.

* * *

Hedda’s father dies quite suddenly.

When General Gabler dies, he leaves his twenty-seven-year-old daughter with only a handful of money and no prospects for the future. The general had taught her to shoot pistols and ride horses, but he hadn’t taught her a thing about managing money or earning it. She’s trapped. The only option now is marriage.

Her father’s dead. Her father’s dead, and she’s absolutely alone.

She cries at the funeral, and no one shames her for it.

* * *

The night after the wedding is humiliating and painful, and Hedda doesn’t know what’s happening. Eilert had talked about this sort of thing, yes, but he’d never said what the women were supposed to do. She settles for lying perfectly still and bracing against the pain.

“Hedda,” Tesman says drowsily after it’s all over, lightly cupping her chin in his hand. She forces herself not to flinch away from his touch as he continues speaking. “Do you know, Hedda, that wasn’t half as bad as I was expecting...quite nice actually. Uh?”

He seems to be expecting a response, but Hedda, breathing irregularly, simply stares at him; she’s beyond confused and terrified and, for once in her life, lost for words.

After a couple more seconds, he must realize that she isn’t going to answer because he lets go of her face, rolls over to the other side of the bed, and is asleep almost instantly.

Once her husband is finally, finally off her, Hedda curls up into a ball and shudders. She hadn’t expected to feel more lonely than ever upon getting married, but as she finds herself curled up alone on her side of the bed with a sharp pain deep inside of her body, she realizes she is. This isn't how it was supposed to be, Hedda's sure of it. She'd been meant for so much _more_ than married life and all the degradation and ugliness that accompanied it.

But she'd needed money and feared scandal, so she'd sold herself, all of herself, to a middle-class specialist, and he doesn't seem to want to give her back anytime soon. It's terrible and lonely, but there's simply nothing to be done about it. She's not Hedda Gabler anymore; she's Mrs. Tesman now, and she has to be a wife. Otherwise people would talk. She's trapped forever in a role she'd never really wanted to play in the first place.

The tears come quickly; they’re unbidden, unwanted, but that doesn’t stop them.

And Hedda knows she shouldn’t be crying, knows she’s just being stupid and pathetic and bringing herself down to the level of all those other, lesser girls, but everything is wrong. She’s made a terrible mistake, and there’s no way to fix it.

She doesn’t want to be married.

She doesn’t want to _be_.

* * *

Hedda’s blissfully on her own for once, having managed to find an excuse to get out of Tesman’s daily trip to the library. Not that the room they’re currently residing in is a very interesting place to stay for an entire morning, but at least she doesn’t have to constantly hear about the medieval crafts of Brabant. That’s something, at any rate.

The beginning of the day is fairly uninteresting. Tesman had picked her some violets (the flowers of modesty, _ha_ ) the other day; they’re practically wilted by now, but Hedda attempts to sketch them for a while before giving up and tossing the abysmal rendition into the fireplace. She’s never been one for creating things.

After that, she pens a letter to Judge Brack; he'd written her about the Falk mansion. She responds in kind, going on about how _delightful_ her honeymoon has been. It's been nothing of the sort, of course, merely one state of unendurable tedium after another. The gorgeous surroundings don't help matters much. A gilded cage, after all, is still a cage. But she can't tell the judge this; Tesman will undoubtedly read the letter. So she lies, something she's been getting quite good at lately.

She signs the letter—‘Hedda’ first, a comfortable pattern of lines and circles she’s used to. Her last name is next, but she finds herself automatically writing the loop of ‘G’ instead of lifting her hand for ‘T’ before she can stop herself. In the end, she manages to rectify the error, but the ‘T’ of ‘Tesman’ is slightly crooked; with luck, Brack won’t look too closely at it, won’t see how pathetic she is.

Finishing the letter, Hedda folds it and then proceeds to stare out the sunlit window at the people outside, desperately wishing she were one of those joyous-looking passersby instead of being trapped in here. It would be nice to be happy again.

At least the honeymoon will be over soon. The trip’s only meant to last about six months, and they’re just now starting month five.

There’s a twitch in her abdomen, and Hedda freezes in icy dread.

Tesman had commented on her apparent “filling out” a few weeks ago, but that doesn’t mean anything, just like the lack of monthly blood for the past three months doesn’t mean anything, not really. Ridiculous. He’s an academic _specialist_ , after all; what does the man truly know about women’s bodies? Not much, if the instances where he claims his conjugal rights are anything to go by. No, she’s just being overly dramatic. There’s nothing—

The twitch happens again, stronger this time, and Hedda reflexively punches herself in the stomach. There’s something _in_ there, something alive, and it’s repulsive and wrong and can’t be happening to _her_. She wasn’t _made_ for such things. She was made to achieve greatness, not to be a receptacle for the desires of a mediocre specialist, and she especially wasn’t made to bear his equally mediocre offspring. No. _Never_ that.

When she’d been at school all those years ago, a blushing instructor had informed her class that children were created “when a mother and father held the deepest love for one another” and left it at that. There had been no “deepest love” between Hedda and Tesman, at least not on her side. She _can’t_ be expecting. She doesn’t love him. She can’t give birth to the spawn of someone she’s never loved. This all has to be a bad dream.

She wraps her arms around herself, terrified of her own body. How did children even _emerge_? They’d never taught that in school. All Hedda knows is that her mother had died in childbirth. She’d killed her own mother.

She’d killed her mother, and now this—this _thing_ , this seed of Tesman’s that’s implanted itself inside her—is going to kill her. If by some miracle the parasite doesn’t kill her, she’ll be left to care for it, to act like she _loves_ the thing. The idea is too frightening to even think about.

Shaking, she pulls the window shade down and draws her legs up to her chest. She hadn’t intended to cry, but the racking sobs come before she can stop herself. Once making absolutely sure that there’s no one around who’ll hear her, she willingly gives in to her tears this once, scared of what the future will bring.

* * *

Everything’s wrong because everything she does always ends up turning into a disaster. She’s expecting the child of a man whom she can’t stand, Eilert Løvborg has been killed in the most grotesque way possible, and now Judge Brack has absolute control over her.

If Hedda’s honest with herself, she’d half expected it to turn out this way for a while now. There isn’t anything to live for anymore, and there hasn’t been for a long, long time.

She’d just never been courageous enough to carry it out before now.

Hedda turns to the piano, hitting the keys with reckless abandon in a half-improvised dance medley. It doesn’t matter if they hear anymore; it doesn’t matter if they criticize her, because it won’t matter in a few moments anyway—

From her vantage point in the inner room, she can hear Tesman shouting, telling her to think of his Auntie Rina, to think of Eilert. She stops playing and immediately hates herself for it. This piano playing had been her last stand, her last rebellion, and she doesn’t even have the courage to play it all the way through until the end of the piece.

“And Auntie Julie—and all the rest of them,” says Hedda, peering out from between the curtains for the last time. The judge looks up and meets her gaze with a glance that makes no attempt to hide his lecherous intent; internally shuddering, she looks away from him and continues, “From now on I’ll be quiet.”

She withdraws into the inner room once again, pulling the curtains shut. Tesman begins babbling to Thea Elvsted about how she’ll need to move in with his Aunt Julie so he can come over evenings and work with her, and Thea readily agrees. Of course. They’re planning a life without Hedda; after all, she’s utterly unnecessary.

“I can hear everything you say, Tesman,” says Hedda, attempting to keep her voice from shaking. “But what will I do evenings over here?”

“Oh, I’m sure Judge Brack will be good enough to stop by and see you,” replies the voice of her ridiculously naïve husband.

“Gladly, every blessed evening, Mrs. Tesman!” the judge’s voice says, and Hedda could laugh at how absurd the whole thing is, how ridiculous, how unbearable. “We’ll have great times here together, the two of us!”

Hedda stares up at her father’s portrait; his stern image is looking down upon her just like always. How fitting. She places the cold barrel of the gun against her temple, becomes acutely aware of her beating heart, but doesn’t shed a single tear. Her father would have been proud of her were he still alive, she's sure of it.

She’s a terrible coward, but not now. Not anymore. For once, she’s got the courage to do something.

“Yes, don’t you hope so, Judge?” says Hedda. “You, the one cock of the walk—”

It’s going to be beautiful.

She pulls the trigger.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote my first _Hedda Gabler_ fic (it's called Sprawling on a Pin, and it's also on this account) for a school assignment. Nearly a year after I wrote that one, I found myself still desperately in love with both this play and this character, so naturally I had to write another. 
> 
> Thanks for creating Hedda, Ibsen. I appreciate it.


End file.
